What Ultros Did Next and Other Strange Tales
by Katenesse
Summary: Now that balance has been restored, what else awaits the Returners? Ultros has a few ideas. Expect implausible plot-lines, inexplicable pairings and the wrath of one very outraged purple octopus. [The sequel to Beyond Chaos, with cross-overs from FFIV and IX]. [Celes, Locke] [Terra, Kefka] [Edgar] [Sabin] [Setzer]
1. A Monument To Some Existence

_Although this fic is the sequel to Beyond Chaos, I opted for a slightly different structure. Instead of complete run-on chapters, my idea is to write 10 mini-episodes which still incorporate over-arching storylines. There are also a few cross-overs, but the FFVI cast star predominantly throughout. _

_All characters, places and references to the Final Fantasy series: Squaresoft/Square Enix_

_References to Setzer's savings: Borrowed from '2 Broke Girls!' (Please don't judge me...)_

_Anyway, enjoy!_

**A Monument To Some Existence**

Celes, Locke, Terra, Edgar, Sabin and Setzer are treated to an exclusive screening of a 3-minute film based on their adventures. _(I never liked the CGI end movie released for the PlayStation)._

**A SALLOW-SKINNED MAN** adorned in a denim cap and overalls was standing outside Jidoor's one and only Auction House. A stiff moustache perched on his upper lip like a miniature, grey nail-brush. In his hands he carried what appeared to be a large cake tin forged from steel. He surveyed the small, eccentrically-dressed group that was amassing before him; his expression one of plaintive contemplation.

"You all here for the film?" he asked gruffly. With an enthusiastic affirmation from the crowd, the man turned and unbolted the door to the hall. The room itself was lit only by natural light, which was fading fast in the late afternoon. Chairs had been set out in neat rows, just as if there had actually been a sale on. A musty smell, not unlike the unpleasant aroma of ancient mothballs, assaulted the Returners' senses as they entered. Upon the stage, the denim-clad individual fiddled with a canvas screen and a projector, while an excited buzzing filled the rest of the hall. Having pulled the drapes closed over the Auction House's arched windows, the man straightened and faced his audience.

"So, this film comes courtesy of Squaresoft and is based on a true story," he read huskily from a tiny, white card. After he had finished explaining what exactly a _film_ was and how the projector had travelled from a far more technologically-advanced realm than their own, the Returners relaxed back in their seats. A whirring noise began and, as if by magic (the _only_ logical explanation), a series of flickering images danced across the screen. Gasps of awe arose at the over-the-top explosions and scenes of long, dramatic staring, all set to a stirring rendition of Aria di Mezzo Carattere. When the final shot of a blonde, sour-faced actress standing on a beach faded to black, the man strode forward and yanked the room's curtains open once more.

Edgar immediately leaned forward to glance at his brother, who was seated between Locke and Setzer. As he caught Sabin's eye, the King's mouth twitched in amusement.

"I'm not saying it was bad! Only… the actor they chose to play me wasn't nearly good-looking enough." Sabin laughed dryly.

"You're just saying that because the actor playing _me_ was built like a tank." He squinted up at the canvas screen reflectively. "I don't think the film-maker quite understood the concept of the coin toss…" Celes, who had been scrutinising the shape of her mouth in a hand-held mirror, quickly dropped the artefact back in her bag.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Sabin slouched back in his seat, his broad arms tucked behind his head.

"Well, why would Edgar and I let the fate of our kingdom rest on a _two-headed_ coin? Seems like a bit of a blunder to me!" He looked to his brother for affirmation, but instead found his twin's expression had twisted as though he had stubbed his toe on a blunt object. Celes pursed her lips.

"Are you sure about that, Sabin?"

"Please, I think I would've noticed if it'd had my face on one side and Edgar's on the other!" Setzer opened his mouth to contradict the monk, but was cut off by the sudden upstart of the King's raucous applause.

"What a show! What were everyone's favourite parts?" Edgar blurted out in a voice which did not quite match the wild stare of his eyes. Celes placed a firm grasp on his arm until the clapping slowed to complete stop. Setzer gruffly and purposefully cleared his throat.

"I _loved_ the scene with me flying the Blackjack." He rose to his feet, withdrawing a handful of trick cards from the pocket of his grubby overcoat. "One minute I was at the wheel, then next – BAM!" He threw the stack at the back of the chair in front, where they clattered noisily to the floor. The denim-clad man, who had been not-so-subtly jangling his keys throughout the course of their conversation, clucked his tongue irritably. Celes exhaled loudly through her nose.

"Yes, if only they did that in real life. It could be quite useful, especially when they rest of us are fighting with _actual_ weapons." Sabin lowered his arms, cracking his knuckles as Setzer ruefully collected his scattered cards.

"Relm used to carry a paintbrush…" the gambler muttered bitterly.

"I think Shadow's scene was cool too," Sabin continued, leaning back in his seat, "you know, the bit when he took on all those ghosts! He would've loved to see it. I can just picture his reaction." He pressed his hands over his forehead and mouth, then turned to stare dully at Locke.

"Oh, so he'd be _over the moon_ then?" Sabin narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.

"No, no, that was him smiling!" He sighed, waving a hand over his face artistically. "It's all in the eyes."

"I _hated_ it." Celes turned in astonishment to Terra, whose jaw was clenched with vehemence. As her eyelids fluttered closed, her hands curled into trembling fists. "They made me look so… so… _evil!_" Locke gently placed his hand against Terra's shuddering back.

"Terra, we know you're not evil. You were wearing a Slave Crown…" With a noisy gulp of air, Terra continued, her shrill voice rising through several octaves.

"Anyone who watches this will think I'm just awful! Every scene showed me riding Magitek armour and tr-trampling people!" Using the backrest of the chair in front, she dragged herself to her feet and stood staring at Celes with hostile, bloodshot eyes.

"You got to wear a beautiful dress… rescued from prison…" She gasped, her brittle voice cracking with emotion. "_Flowers!_" she managed in an ear-wrenching shriek. In the streets outside, several dogs howled in agreement. The old man had stopped ringing his keys by this point and was simply staring in amazement.

"Come on, Terra," Celes uttered in a hushed voice, "you've done so much good in the name of humanity. Remember that!" Terra's ragged breath caught in her throat.

"Well the film-maker obviously didn't!"

"Look Terra, at least you can leave Jidoor today and tell everyone that you've been in a real life film!" Locke clapped a firm hand on her back and offered her a roguish wink. Terra wiped her streaming eyes with a red sleeve and blinked at him mournfully. Of course she could say that. On the other hand, Locke had been portrayed by a pair of tanned, feminine arms and the mere back of a blonde head. An uncomfortable silence imposed itself upon the hall until, at long last, Celes spoke.

"I'm sorry, Locke, I know we only saw-"

"I was in a _film_!" the treasure-hunter cried out in glee. "I can't wait to tell my grandpa!"

"Right, you've had your three minutes of fame," came the old man's gruff voice. "Now beat it." He jangled his keys threateningly, as though to add relish to his words.

~̃*~*~̃

And so goes the tale of The Returners' one and only film premiere. The reel circulated in other realms of the universe with far superior technology, and proved thoroughly unremarkable. Later, when our heroes returned to The Falcon, they would find an ink-strewn note left by Ultros. The octopus, who had suffered dental disfiguration, second-degree burns and permanent facial scars at the hands of his allies, claimed that the injury of being excluded from the film premiere was too much to endure. From that day on, he swore almighty vengeance upon The Returners…

And an impeccably-timed threat it was too. Cid's Famous Fish Stew had been on the menu that very night.

**Setzer's Airship Repair Fund: 0 gil**


	2. Better The Kefka You Know

**Better The Kefka You Know**

Having somewhat adjusted to his new medication, Kefka is convinced to make amends for the many, many wrongs he has committed. (_I'm so going to hell for this one_).

**TRAILS OF VIBRANT **bunting were tethered between the sloping, cottage rooftops of Doma. Garlands and ribbons adorned the ceremonial Maypoles, while the clash of cymbals, pipes and drums filled the warm, Spring air. It was May Day; an ancient, Doman festival of food and music. Crowds amassed before the castle's steel-wrought gates, babbling excitedly. For many of them, the May Day celebrations were an entirely new experience.

A year and a half ago, Doma's population had suffered a swift and decisive decline. Unluckily for those who had drunk from the effervescent rivers that day, an unpleasant and rather embarrassing death had befallen them. Still, time had pressed forward and, succeeding the fall of Doma, came the ruin of the entire globe. Luckily for the survivors of these heinous catastrophes, there existed a stretch of rolling pasture with a stone-walled castle and numerous quaint little cottages for rent. And so the refugees came to settle and resurrect Doma to its former glory.

Upon the balcony of Doma's castle, a young man in a gleaming, golden crown emerged, much to the cheers of his supporters. He was swarmed by his regal, blue robes and the ermine edging on the material had brought out a rather nasty rash on his neck. The young King bore a very tenuous claim to the throne. Some claimed he was the distant cousin-thrice-removed to his royal ancestors. Others said he had spent twenty-five years inhabiting the marshland near the Serpent Trench and saw a grand opportunity to climb the social ladder.

"Good day to ye, my countrymen," he stammered, still unable to grasp the Doman dialect fluently, "today is a day for feasting, music and general merriment!" Scattered applause punctuated his speech. The young King turned to his advisor and, with a few hastily-exchanged whispers, whirled around to the crowds with a majestic wave.

"Before the day's festivities commence, there will be a short speech, as May Day custom dictates! Could you please lend your ears to our special guest…" The audience, who had begun to shuffle and stamp their feet with impatience, were suddenly frozen in horror. Standing beside the King, his green cape billowing in the soft breeze and a new, glossy chocobo feather adorning his hair, stood Kefka Palazzo.

The last time witnesses recalled the man's presence upon balcony of Doma Castle, he had allegedly been dancing a Charleston to the music of a thousand voices screaming in unison.

Today however, he regarded the assembly sombrely. Kefka cleared his throat noisily, shuffling a small deck of prompt-cards between his pale hands. He narrowed his eyes, deliberating as to whether it would be simpler to read out the apology Celes had written for him, or to fling the entire pile over his shoulder and speak from the heart (or rather, the heart-shaped void in his chest). If Kefka was tempted by the latter, then he would have to explain everything from the beginning…

~̃*~*~̃

For the past three days, Kefka had been stowed away in the Falcon's Engine Room, along with an assortment of the Returners' other inanimate objects. He had sat, propped up in the corner, drifting in and out of consciousness as Cid's home-brewed sedative gradually dissolved into his bloodstream. The professor had been applying different concentrations of his concoction with varying degrees of effectiveness. The first time Kefka had awoken, he had requested a glass of water, before promptly looping his intravenous line around Cid's neck and throttling him. _A disappointing result_, the professor had later noted, _but based on my previous experience, not entirely unexpected._

Following a much stronger infusion, Cid had arrived to check up on Kefka, only to find the man cradling a giant slab of dried-out coral which had long been abandoned in the Engine Room. He had turned to stare at Cid with wide, tragic eyes.

"Water! Can't you see he needs _water_?!" His voice broke as he slumped, sobbing into the pale rock. "Do what you want with me but _for the love of God_, he has a family!"

With the dosage of his tranquilisers adjusted accordingly, Kefka was finally proclaimed to be a tolerable member of society. His mood swings were still alarming to say the least, and there was no cure for his nihilism towards all life-forms. Despite such a bizarre twist of fate, the Returners conceded to let Kefka stay on-board the Falcon with them. They deemed themselves collectively responsible for the man whom they had killed, resurrected and then emotionally-engineered. Moreover, all agreed that he could not possibly prove to be worse company than Ultros.

Only, Kefka wasn't planning on staying.

Upon the mage's request, Setzer landed the airship just outside of Jidoor. With a snarl and a sweep of his cloak, Kefka had stormed away through the city's bustling streets, vowing never to set his eyes on any of their repulsive faces ever again.

That same evening, he returned.

"Cid," he greeted the Falcon's crew bluntly. Still breathless from waving down the airship, Kefka staggered up the gangplank. From his right hand trailed a withered stick, around which he had fastened his green cape as an improvised flag. With poorly-masked indignation, Celes lead the mage down to the Engine room, which now also served as a makeshift laboratory for the professor's odd experiments.

"Cid… I'm sick…" As Kefka meandered feebly into the middle of the room, Cid looked up from his lab specimens in curiosity. With laboured breathing, the mage gripped at his chest dramatically, his face contorted in pain. Cid sighed and placed the trembling moogle that he had been handling back in its cage.

"What appears to be the problem?"

Having gathered a quill and his notes, Cid and Kefka each took a seat. The mage divulged a lengthy list of ailments, most of which were symptomatic of Veldt Whooping Fever. Eventually, the professor completed his annotations with a flourish. He regarded Kefka over the top of his spectacles and flashed him a wry smile.

"Kefka, these are all symptoms of guilt." Cid sidled forward in his chair, clasping his hands together solemnly. "I'm afraid you have developed… a _conscience_." From the wild stare of Kefka's eyes, it seemed Cid had announced that he had contracted one colossal kidney stone.

"Well – get rid of it!"

"There is only one course of treatment," Cid continued in a grave voice, "you must make amends for all of your wrong-doings."

Kefka scowled. In retrospect, kidney stones would have been a pleasure to pass compared with the sickening notion of redemption. The old doctor leant backwards casually in his seat, a hint of smugness playing about his mouth. It somewhat soothed Kefka's rage to hear the _crack_ of broken chair legs just seconds before Cid was upturned onto the floor.

As much as he willed himself to simply _feel_ better, Kefka continued to suffer audibly throughout the following day. Excruciating guilt crushed his soul, much like one of Ultros' four-tonne weights. Eventually, whether due to his own conviction or the intolerance of his crew mates, Kefka became resigned to his fate. He knew that he must go forth as all other goody-two shoes had gone before him. However, as Terra was forced to explain, this was not merely as simple as "hugging a tree or whatever." Kefka finally agreed to pay a brief visit to Doma in favour of a legendary mountain-climbing expedition which Celes had suggested for him. Something about the name 'Mount Ordeals' had sounded far too tedious for his liking.

~̃*~*~̃

So, it was before a packed courtyard of Doman locals where Kefka stood, shuffling his prompt-cards awkwardly. The compulsion to ad-lib his performance had waned, leaving him to simply read out Celes' handwritten notes in a monotonous drawl. The Returners had interspersed themselves amongst the crowd for moral support. Although painfully boring, Kefka's speech at least lacked his usual insolence.

"So… yeah… sorry again for the massacre. I feel terrified." Celes flinched as though someone had sworn in church. Beside her, Locke stirred uncomfortably.

"What?" he whispered. Celes closed her eyes in irritation and, with her hands pressed against her temples, stood mouthing the correct expression under her breath. Locke looked up to the balcony where Kefka was frowning at the card in his hand.

"Terrible!" he shouted jubilantly then, in a lower voice, he continued, "yeah, that's what I meant. Nice _handwriting_, Celes." A splatter of unenthusiastic applause marked the end of his speech, most likely because the King's guards had drawn their katanas as a subtle reminder of what poor behaviour could evoke. As the King gave his public thanks, Kefka was escorted back down to where the Returners were gathered to the left of the castle's gates.

"Good job, Kefka," Edgar remarked dryly as he approached, "I sure the victims' families will always remember those heartfelt words." Kefka waved at him dismissively and glanced away to where the King's guards held their glinting swords in the pale sunlight.

"Did you even hear what I said?" the engineer hissed, to which Kefka replied with an angry buzzing sound. He took a few steps, then broke into his frantic, disjointed jog towards the line of guards. Edgar widened his eyes purposefully at the others.

"This can't be good. After him!"

Resplendent in his azure armour, Cyan Garamonde stood upon a stone-flagged wall, overlooking his troops with dark, keen eyes. He glared suspiciously as a golden feather cleaved its way through the assembly towards him. Cyan hesitated then, with his misgivings confirmed, he gripped the hilt of his katana warily.

"What dost thou want Kefka?" he seethed as the mage materialised before him. Without even pausing to reply, Kefka began rummaging within the recesses of his green cape. Cyan gave a nod for his men to raise their weapons.

"I shalt give thou until the count of three. One-" But before the samurai could finish, Kefka produced a small, delicately-wrapped box which he shoved into the man's hands.

"I told you _no ad-libbing_!" Celes roared, as she and The Returners emerged from the crowd, "what have you done, Kefka?!" The mage waved his finger obnoxiously at her.

"It's just a little apology present!" Cyan's eyes slid cautiously between the polka-dot packaging and Kefka's expectant grin. There was only one gift Cyan would have been glad to accept as compensation for the murder of his wife and child. However, considering that this was still firmly attached to Kefka's neck, he knew that whatever the box held would be bitterly disappointing in comparison.

"If this is some sort of sick joke-" Locke cut in, but Kefka shook his head emphatically.

"No joke! No joke! Open it." Cyan fixed the mage with a final, venomous stare and then tore through the wrapping in one, fluid motion. He lifted the lid, only to find himself gazing at a pile of loose sheets covered in cramped handwriting. He lifted the first piece of parchment and read along the first few lines soundlessly. This was replaced for the second, then the third. Cyan looked to Kefka, his dark brow furrowed in bewilderment.

"These are legal forms. A copyright contract for what looks like…" Cyan rustled the papers and brought out the last piece of the documentation. "A chemical of sorts. A poison? This is _your_ foul concoction!" He glared at Kefka in disgust. "Why should I, of all people, desire something so hideous?" Kefka, who could barely keep himself from rising onto his tip-toes, beamed at the samurai in glee.

"Read the last bit!" Cyan's eyes flicked to the bottom of the page, where they remained fixed in horror.

"Thou hast n-named it… CYANIDE?!" Kefka clapped his hands together in delight.

"I know! It has nice ring to it doesn't it?"

~̃*~*~̃

Having narrowly escaped the riot which ensued shortly after Kefka's insensitive declaration, The Returners amassed themselves on-board the Falcon's deck. The aircraft had still not recovered the ability to fly, leaving Setzer and his crew to frantically paddle the ship out of the path of a thousand flaming arrows as they sailed down from Doma's battlements. Once they were safely out of range, Terra launched herself at Kefka with all the fury of an upturned Phantom Train.

"How could you _do_ that?!" she screamed, swinging her palm into Kefka's jaw. The mage staggered backwards, dazed by the blow. "After everything Cyan went through and you…!" It took some time to pacify her, and even longer for the Returners to gather some understanding of Kefka's actions.

After he had cast a small block of ice to ease the bruising on his face, the mage dutifully explained how he had never partaken in the tradition of gift-giving before, and was unlikely to try anything alike it again. Kefka divulged his understanding that the desire to leave a legacy was universal to all humans, himself included. Where one might construct a tower out of a dilapidated landmass, others would leave their names to something great. By the end of his account, Terra found herself staring at the red mark on her hand uncomfortably.

"Sorry…" she managed quietly, "we should have known you were trying your best… even if you did cause an uprising."

From that day on, The Returners vowed never to try and make Kefka a better person ever again. Little did they know that Cid's sedative, still at work within Kefka's bloodstream, was compelling him to become more docile with each passing day. The nights brought strange but subtle sensations too. He experienced visions of a purple octopus who inspire cunning schemes, like giving the rights of a class-A toxin to Cyan Garamonde…

**Setzer's Airship Repair Fund: 0 gil **


	3. Potion Commotion

**Potion Commotion**

When one of Celes' potions goes missing, the entire party become suspects in the case. (_I like to imagine these kinds of scenes taking place while I'm levelling up my characters)._

"**WE HAVEN'T DONE** this for a while, have we?" Locke called over his shoulder to where he had abandoned Celes, Edgar and Setzer to dismantle their shared tent. He gazed out over the cliffs of Mobliz in wonder. The swell of the tide against the rocks mingled a salty tang within the earthy scents of the Veldt's lush, green grasses. The adventurer sucked in a great lungful of aromatic air, along with a rather unfortunate fly. He gasped and began hacking noisily into his gloved hands.

After The Returners' feeble attempts to defend themselves against the pride of Doma's army, Celes had decided that the crew needed to return to a regimented combat-training programme. With potions and phoenix downs bundled into packs, sharpened swords stowed in sheaths and relics securely buckled, her hand-picked platoon of four had ventured out into the plains of the Veldt. The idea was to go for a few rounds with the local wildlife and then find their way back to camp in time for Sabin's Spicy Behemoth Broth.

"Hunting for game, collecting up a bounty, sleeping out under the stars…" Locke gave a luxurious stretch and scratched the back of his head. Behind him came the clang of poles and the sounds of material crumpling. He half-turned towards the source of the noise.

"Everything okay back there?"

"Fine!" lashed Celes with all the acidity of an adder bite. Pole in hand, Edgar gently probed at the folds of the collapsed tent. The mass rumbled and from beneath the canvas emerged the striped face of a stray cat. It bore its yellow teeth rudely, before a pale hand shot out from under the tent and yanked the creature into the air by its bushy tail.

"Who do you think you're smirking at, you little bastard?"

Using his elbow as a prop, Setzer extracted himself carefully from the folds of material. He struggled up onto his knees and began examining the scratches which were visible through his torn shirt sleeve. The cat continued to writhe and yowl in his outstretched hand.

"Locke, you're meant to be carrying one of these!" Celes lifted a rolled-up sleeping bag and threw it at the adventurer's feet. "Edgar, put the poles away in this case and Setzer _let go of that cat!_"

"Do you mean before or after I skin it?" Setzer growled through his teeth. Celes did not answer him, for her attention had become entirely fixated on the brown, leather bag which swung from her shoulder. She rooted around its contents desperately, her face contorted in concentration. Unable to grasp the item she desired, Celes set the pack on the floor and emptied its contents upon the grass. She counted the items audibly, placing back tiny pumps of ether and phoenix down needles, still sealed in their packets. Eventually, all that remained on the ground were two bottles filled with clear, sparkling liquid.

"Um…" Celes straightened slowly. "Did any of you borrow one of my potions?" There came a general murmur of dissent, followed by a sharp intake of breath as the stray cat lunged at Setzer. With his final assault complete, the creature scampered off across the plains.

"That- that damned animal!" The gambler pressed his injured hand to his mouth and sucked on the wound. Locke felt his lip twitch. He turned to tie the sleeping bag to the top of his pack, his cheeks aching with suppressed laughter.

"All the same…" Celes continued, relegating Setzer's agony from her list of immediate concerns, "I packed three potions and now I only have two. Could you all just check in case you accidentally picked one up?" Edgar obliged by theatrically rummaging about in his bag, before withdrawing an empty hand.

"Sorry Celes. You know I'd never touch your things… without permission." He lifted the bag of tent poles onto his other shoulder and, with a final wink, strode onwards. Locke narrowed his eyes distastefully after his friend, then turned to shrug at the ex-general.

"I don't even like carrying my own potions. That's why I take-" He grimaced, conscious of a fault. "-_borrow_ them elsewhere… sometimes… er… Setzer?" The pilot patted down his pack then concluded his enquiry with an expression of resignation. He removed his bleeding hand from his mouth.

"As we're talking potions, could you throw one my way?"

Celes' eyes were ice.

"Or I can just quietly bleed to death, if that's easier?" Setzer sighed morosely. The strained silence was broken by a tinkling sound as Edgar extracted his wallet.

"Take four-hundred… five-hundred gil? What do potions go for these days?" He held out the money towards Celes who, even as her voice rose to a scream, did not take her stare away from Setzer's whitened face.

"It's not about the potion. It's the _principle!_"

"Celes, cool it!" Locke held out his hands warily. "We promise we'll be more careful with your belongings in future. In the meantime…" He extracted his own wallet and peered inside to see a blackened shard of old magicite and a dead moth.

"…let Edgar buy you another one!" Locke finished hastily, shoving the leather case back into his jacket.

"But it's not just _one_ potion, is it?" Celes snapped, "this happens _every_ other day and I'm sick of it! In fact, I'm not going to buy them anymore! What's the point when they just end up getting stolen?" The young general's nostrils flared like two great caverns; her taught lips blanched into a pale, indistinguishable line. Locke gasped suddenly as though he had received an invisible blow to the stomach.

"What was with that look?"

"I'm _angry_," Celes replied tersely, "and I don't see why you're singling yourself out. Unless you've got a guilty conscience?" Her gaze flicked down to the knapsack which swung from Locke's shoulder. The adventurer clasped the bag's buckle defensively.

"Of course you'd assume it was me," he snarled, "you think I'm some petty thief." Celes' eyebrows slowly lifted themselves into her hairline.

"Prove it then. Empty your bag." Setzer and Edgar exchanged a nervous glance.

"Celes…"

"It's a potion…"

"It's the _principle_," Locke interrupted scathingly, "except we're not living under martial law, Celes. Maybe stop-and-searches and house raids were all the rage in _Vector_, but we're in the free world now!" The muscle in Celes' jaw flexed dangerously.

"Empty your bag." Her fingers trailed the hilt of her sword. Locke squared his shoulders.

"Make me."

"You think you're some special breed of treasure hunter," Celes hissed in a voice barbed with venom, "All you are is a lowly, common, garden-variety _pick-pocket." _Locke's mouth fell open in outrage.

"I'd rather that than be an oppressive fascist like you!" Edgar and Setzer's heads snapped rhythmically from side-to-side, as though following the progress of a particularly savage tennis match.

"Well?" Celes breathed shortly. Locke threw her a look of revulsion before violently upturning the contents of his pack upon the grass. Amidst a faded balaclava, a spare set of gloves and some assorted lock picks, the ground was littered with jewels. A pearl broche, a diamond pendant with earrings to match, golden rings, spangled bracelets and what appeared to be a sapphire-encrusted naval ring all lay gleaming in the fading sunlight. Disbelief glazed Celes' features.

"Guess he's not just a pick-pocket," Setzer remarked wryly.

"It's not what it looks like!" Locke exploded, "I'm curating a collection for an exhibition next week." He dropped to his knees and began frantically stuffing the jewels back into the bag. Behind him, Edgar stifled a snort.

"What exhibition is that then?"

"Eh…" Locke's hand sought the back of his hair.

"And where did you 'curate' these from exactly?" Edgar stooped to pluck the naval ring from the ground. "Hey, my Aunt Cornelia used to wear one just like this-"

Locke lunged forward and swiped the jewellery piece from the King's open palm.

"Doesn't matter!" The adventurer buckled his bag then stood to his full height, swinging the knap-sack from his shoulder. "Some of Jidoor's wealthiest widows were feeling generous! More importantly, _I_ clearly didn't steal your potion, Celes." He folded his arms and glanced coolly over at her, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Well, _someone_ has it," Celes snapped, ignoring Locke's bold invitation for an apology. She strode before the three men with hands clasped and nose held imperiously in the air.

"Considering that Edgar has just admitted having an intimate knowledge of his own aunt's anatomy, I'm sure he would find it comparatively easy to confess that there's an extra potion in his pocket-"

"Maybe he's just pleased to see you," Setzer interrupted. He threw his grizzled head back and gave a great bark of laughter, his shoulders heaving. Sensing that such amusement was not shared by his comrades, the gambler slowly lowered his head to find all eyes trained upon him.

"Oh, come on…"

"This _is_ martial law, my friend," Edgar sighed, seizing Setzer's pack from where the pilot had dropped it on the ground. The King held the bag to himself briefly, his features tightened with uncertainty.

"Just to clarify, Cornelia was my uncle's wife. We weren't related by blood." Edgar nodded to himself, before adding in a slightly lower voice, _"Thank Goddess."_

"Ed, we know your libido knows no bounds! Just throw the bag over here." Locke caught the canvas bag in his outstretched hands and began rummaging through its contents. Celes appeared at his shoulder, poised as though supervising a subordinate officer's cross-examination.

"What have we got here? A pack of trick cards, darts, tobacco… some foreign coins…" He lifted a piece of silver from the bottom of the sack. Turning the coin, Locke's thumb traced the embossed image of a scowling, one-legged dragoon brandishing a spear.

"Boy, he looks pissed."

"Won them at the Dragon's Neck Coliseum," Setzer blurted hastily before anyone else could interject. Locke made a sound of acknowledgement then swung the bag back and forth a final time, allowing its innards to collide and jangle nosily. Celes placed a firm hand on his arm.

"What's this? A sword fragment?" Mystified, she withdrew a dull shard of metal which had apparently suffered at the hands of a manic graffiti artist. Locke craned his neck to read the feverish engravings which had been carved across the entire length of the fragment.

_"One… porn from a dragon host…? _I can't make it out!" He squinted more closely at the barely-legible text. Unbeknownst to him, Setzer's expression had set rigidly.

"Won it at the Coliseum…" the gambler mouthed faintly.

"…_the light and the dork…_ _Arse high up in the sky…?_" Locke lowered the blade to stare at Setzer in amazement. "What the heck _is_ this thing?"

"It's…" The pilot ran his tongue across cracked lips. He swallowed. "It's… all a bit of a blur. The night I got this I was so drunk… I got into a fight with a mirror." Setzer shook a mass of silver hair from his eyes and lifted the mysterious artefact from Celes' hands.

"So, no one can tell us what happened?" she asked, her tone tinged with disappointment.

"Well I was never invited back there, that's for sure…"

"_No_! What happened to my potion?" Celes seethed, her hands working themselves into balled fists, "we've been out here for what feels like hours and we're still no closer to discovering the truth!"

Warily, Edgar raised his hand, only to find Locke's accusatory finger waved before him with a jubilant cry of "AHA!" The whites of Celes' eyes gleamed in revelation. Sensing that another unwilling participant had stepped before the searchlight, Setzer's taught expression finally relaxed.

"Firstly, I don't have it."

Edgar waited for the appropriate amount of time for his companions to express their exasperation at this anti-climactic turn of events, before speaking again. "However, I believe a certain _someone_ has realised the potion has been in her bag all along and is now too embarrassed to admit otherwise." Here, he gave a very deliberate nod in Celes' direction. The young General's stare could have rivalled a high-frequency Magitek laser.

"Aren't you quite the detective?" she quipped, her icy tone plummeting several hundred degrees further. "Who else believes Edgar has made it quite obvious that he has my potion?"

For a moment no one spoke.

"500 gil says Celes is guilty," Locke decided aloud.

"I'll take that action," Setzer snapped like a fish on a line, "Double or nothing Celes is as clean as freshly-fallen snow." He waited while the treasure-hunter peeked inside a leather wallet.

"We have an accord!" Locke cried, grasping the gambler by the hand. His suspicions roused, Edgar drove a hand inside the pocket of his travelling cloak, only for his fingertips to meet with empty folds of silk.

"I _wish_ it were that simple," Celes sighed, rubbing her eyes irritably, "I wish I could just remember drinking one earlier. But the ugly truth is that some selfish, inconsiderate person took my potion, forcing us to stay here all night until we find out who exactly that was…" She swept her comrades with an implicit glance.

"All night?" Locke groaned, clapping a hand to his stomach, "but Sabin's making broth-"

"_NO BROTH UNTIL WE FIND THE POTION!_" Celes roared, causing a flock of cirpius to scatter, shrieking from their nests in a nearby tree. Edgar, Locke and Setzer all leapt as though she had fired a warning shot. Instead, Celes hurled her bag at Locke's face.

"Check my belongings. Setzer, you look through Edgar's bag." As the investigation unfolded, she began to patrol the group of men restlessly, her hands gripped behind her back once more.

"Just a bunch of clothes in here…" Setzer commented, pulling out a handful of unusual garments from Edgar's pack. As his pale hand enclosed around a small, black, leather-bound book, Setzer lifted the item and began rifling its pages; his grey eyebrows knitted together in interest. Beside him, Locke was neatly laying out a row of medicinal items from Celes' bag.

"Do any of the women in here have names…?" Setzer glanced up abruptly from his current page. "Scratch that, did you really hook up in The Fanatics Tower?" Edgar accepted the book back as though preparing to study it further, but promptly pocketed the item instead.

"She was obsessed with Kefka." His face paled. "Don't make me go into details."

"Okay, well, his conscience is cleaner than the rest of him." Setzer returned the King's bag, leaving Locke to glance up from Celes' pile of possessions. A piece of folded, white fabric lay strewn across the grass.

"Your Imperial General's cape," he said quietly.

Celes hesitated, then tentatively knelt to lift the cloak into her arms. She stroked the material wistfully with her fingertips.

"Just in case. You know, sometimes it gets cold out…" The Runic Knight stared out across the rising tide. Pin-pricks of stars were beginning to puncture the gathering darkness. A sigh of wind swirled the tall grass around them.

"Sometimes… wearing it makes me feel like I still have a purpose. I look at this cape and it doesn't matter whether we have a plan or whether the universe needs us anymore, because this was a version of me I was once proud of." She held the gold-lined cape to her chest, folding her arms defensively across it. Warily, Locke approached her.

"Celes…"

"I'm sorry I overreacted." She turned away; eyes closed exhaustedly. "I shouldn't treat every situation like a crisis. I guess the transition to civilian life has been more difficult for me than I realised."

~̃*~*~̃

And so the missing potion was abandoned to the wilderness of the Veldt. Reluctantly, Locke paid Setzer his winnings ("Told you Celes was innocent. I'm a man of faith and as soon as she sees it, that's when you're going to lose our other bet!"). The quartet strolled back to camp, agreeing never to pry into one another's business again. Little did they know, only one of them would actually manage to keep such a promise.

Reunited over Behemoth Broth, The Returners talked animatedly through the night about where their adventures would take them to next. Thanks to Sabin's culinary delights, Celes found that her spirits had lifted significantly. She even managed to apologise to Locke and express her wish for a "fresh start." This would become a phrase that Locke would repeat smugly to each of his crewmates in turn, beyond the young general's earshot. Only Kefka's offer to permanently carve the adventurer's grin upon his face with a rusty knife succeeded in deterring him.

No one heard the scampering of bare feet through the Veldt's fields. A teenage boy was scrambling on all fours; a small vial held in his dirt-stained hands. As he neared the mouth of nearby cave, he clambered atop a pile of miss-matched items, discarding the glinting bottle among them.

"Shiny shiny!" he called gleefully.

"What have you brought back this time, Gau?" A dark blot slithered out of the shadows. The shape seemed to uncoil itself and stretch out an impossibly long arm to retrieve the vial. As the bottle was lifted into the light, the liquid within bubbled. A faded label bore the scrawled initials _C.C._

"Another potion?" Ultros smiled. "Why, Gau, you are such a good boy!"

**Setzer's Airship Repair Fund: 1000 gil**


End file.
